


reverence

by myn_x



Series: SASO 2017 Bonus Round Fills [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aftercare, Aged-Up Character(s), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bondage, Cock Rings, Come play, Consent, Dirty Talk, Edging, Facials, Fight-related Violence, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, If you squint lmao, Light Asphyxiation, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Oral Sex, PWP, Polyamory, Praise Kink, Riding, Voyeurism, boxing au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-09 23:05:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11114775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myn_x/pseuds/myn_x
Summary: Finally. Fuckingfinally. Kyoutani knows he has no reason to complain about the arrangement between the five of them, really, but it is frustrating that they don't often have the time to be together all at once. It's overwhelming, sometimes -- not only the complex things he feels for all of them, but also learning and relearning that he's wanted four times more than he has any right to claim.





	reverence

**Author's Note:**

> guess who's back~ 
> 
> written for a saso 2017 br1 [prompt](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=10415122#cmt10415122) that i could not ignore
> 
> the story itself is limited omniscient but sections 1-3 are from kyoutani's personal pov, while 4 onward is meant to be more objective, hence the switch from "Kentarou" to "Kyoutani"
> 
> a few more things:
> 
> 1) writing a five people getting it on is HARD (i havent even written a fucking threesome, go figure) so it might ~~will probably~~ sound clunky. 
> 
> 2) i knew little more than nothing about boxing before i started writing….aaaand despite the research i did, i still have only a minimal understanding of the sport, so you'll probably notice that i took several liberties with that as well lmaO orz
> 
> 3) i watched nacho libre as i wrote part of this
> 
> and 4) pls do not fuck in a boxing ring ok. (this is not the first time they've used the gym like this)
> 
> enjoy~~

Four rounds, and he still can't find a fucking opening. His jabs are parried; his notoriously unstoppable right hooks are useless. He's taken punches to the ribs, the face, both sides, the shoulder. Busted lip, bruised chest, and bleeding cheek from where his opponent's glove grazed his face. He wasn't quick enough to dodge it completely.

When Kentarou last spat in the bucket, it was tinged with red.

He's not defensive-minded -- his m.o. is centered on relentless attack. To be four rounds in and unable to sink a single solid blow is pathetic. Embarrassing. Unsatisfying. He's grounded rivals in half this many rounds, and taken far less damage, even, in ten-round matches.

This is his toughest and most cocky opponent yet; he's strong where Kentarou is weak, quick where Kentarou is hesitant, an indefatigable fortress he can't breach. When Kentarou's next punch rolls off his shoulder, the bastard's lips pull up into a mirthless grin.

Once the fifth round begins, the anger builds and creeps, hums just beneath Kentarou's skin like molten lead as he takes hits that jar his bones and upset his center of gravity. He can barely hear the crowd now, only the sound of the bell echoing in his ears.

But instead of slowing down even further, he speeds up. His senses sharpen. His breath hisses past his mouth guard -- he'd bare his fangs if they weren't hidden behind it -- and he sinks a bit lower, planting his feet like roots. His focus narrows. He starts to see the hits before they come, the swings slowing like stop-motion film.

Kentarou blocks and follows up with a cross, stepping forward to get in the other's space, and it works. It throws him off. Kentarou's punches start to land, his fists finally connecting with flesh, and the other grunts with each blow. Kentarou feeds on it. He throws five quick jabs and the impregnable fortress begins to falter.

 _When he's vulnerable, go mad_ , they said.

And so he did.

 

~

 

Kentarou's offense-heavy attacking style relies on his stamina; if he makes the first move and keeps attacking, theoretically his opponent only has time to guard, (maybe) parry, and throw in a few jabs. The onslaught usually limits his adversary to defensive moves until Kentarou can land the critical blow.

Flipping his switch, going berserk -- that's what Kyoutani Kentarou does best.

But this fight felt different from the start. Before Kentarou gained the upper hand, his opponent blocked -- swatting Kentarou's punches away as if they were more annoying than anything else -- and countered, landing blows Kentarou didn't have time to recover from before he felt that glove against his skin again. Until it felt like there wasn't a swath of skin above the belt that the opposing leather hadn't kissed.

Even now that Kentarou had managed to confine the other to a low defensive stance through sheer force, he still feels the sting of a jab every couple of seconds.

And Kentarou feels his hold on the round begin to slip. He panics.

The next jab is aimed at his chest, and Kentarou sidesteps a nanosecond too late but catches his opponent's still-outstretched arm, holding it and forcing him back into the closest corner, caging him between his body and ring.

The punches fall like the blade of a guillotine, over and over, and Kentarou is only dimly aware of the referee shouting in his ear over the sound of his free glove connecting with flesh. The red-faced ref flutters uselessly around him, his hand slipping off Kentarou's sweat-slick skin as he tries to pry him from the slackening body of his opponent. Whom Kentarou has knocked unconscious.

 

~

 

 _Disqualified_. The word flashes behind Kentarou's eyes with every snap of the jump rope against the wood floor. Sweat collects in the hollows above his clavicles and at the small of his back. The gym is blissfully empty now. If only his mind were as blank.

He replays the match in his mind, mulls over all the times when his hooks should have been more powerful, his jabs quicker. All the times he could have given up attempting to guard and just channeled his focus into counterattacking.

 _Should have snapped at the beginning_ , he thinks. Trainers carried out his opponent, his arms thrown over their shoulders. Kentarou can't remember what his own trainers said as he exited the ring, brushing past the cutman to tend to his own wounds.

The metal door opens with a clang and footsteps interrupt the relative silence of the gym. Voices follow, and Kentarou's ears prick, the rope in his hands slowing to a stop. It's his seniors, probably come to practice now that the match is over.

"Oy, Kyoutani!" Iwaizumi is the first to round the corner, and then Matsukawa, Oikawa, and Hanamaki follow.

"Told you he'd still be here," Iwaizumi says over his shoulder to the others. Looking at Kentarou through the ropes of the empty ring, he raises a brow and his lips settle into a smirk. "That was quite the fight, huh."

Kentarou narrows his eyes and doesn't reply, but worries the handles of the jump rope, his free hand brushing away the sweat at his nape. He's never taken chastisement well. The group surrounds him like a pack of hungry wolves, Iwaizumi's arms crossed, Hanamaki leaning on Matsukawa's shoulder, and Oikawa somewhere behind Kentarou.

With four sets of eyes scrutinizing him, Kentarou starts to squirm. He's shirtless, sweaty, bruised, and vulnerable. "So you watched, eh? Nothing better to do?"

"Of course we'd come to see our favorite junior fight," Oikawa purrs right below Kentarou's ear, making him jump slightly and his hair prickle.

"Our fights are typically a lot less...enthralling," Matsukawa adds with a wink. Hanamaki nods lazily, his lidded eyes never leaving Kentarou's.

"But I lost." The shame creeps across Kentarou's cheeks in two bright swaths of pink. "I threw the match."

"On technicality." Iwaizumi steps forward to put a hand on Kentarou's shoulder, and it burns. "Everything else aside, you said fuck it to the odds stacked against you. The only way you could've taken that monster out was by playing dirty."

Kentarou never misses how Iwaizumi is always the first to come to his defense. "Playing dirty isn't...it isn't _satisfying_."

Hanamaki tilts his head. "It isn't?"

The blush returns to Kentarou's face, but this time it spreads to his ears. He finds he can't avoid their eyes no matter where he looks, so his gaze settles on the floor.

"Wanna keep practicing? You could take out your latent frustrations while you spar or practice your combos. I'm sure Mattsun won't mind, right, Mattsun?"

Kentarou spins to look at Oikawa, whose smug expression belies the innocent act. He instinctively knows that whatever they have planned for him, Oikawa is the mastermind behind it.

"Of course not. You can lay it all out on me, Kyou." Matsukawa, for his part, looks a little sheepish, but Kentarou is half convinced this isn't actually happening. "Only if you want to, though."

"Yeah, we can -- yeah, I'd like that. It's not all out of my system yet."

Oikawa claps his hands, as if a bargain has been settled. "Good! And maybe we can take turns."

 

~

 

Kyoutani slugs the mitts as hard as he can, and yet Matsukawa doesn't budge or flinch. It makes sense, though. Matsukawa, along with the others, is more experienced, but he still can't help but feel impressed considering that practicing like this allows him the luxury of striking with all the reckless abandon he can muster.

But it's too much like during the match, and the anger bubbles up again. His blows become sloppy, uncoordinated.

Matsukawa catches his next punch and pulls him forward. "Kyou. Kyou, look at me."

"I can't. I can't." Kyoutani's voice shakes with fury. And something else he can't name. The proximity leaves him breathless.

"You're not upset about just the fight." Matsukawa's voice drops low so that the others can't hear. "Something has felt off these past few weeks. Something is bothering you."

Matsukawa shucks off the mitts and brushes his knuckles against Kyoutani's cheek, nudging him so that their gazes lock. He's careful to avoid the bruising, where his split skin is held together with tape.

Kyoutani closes his eyes for a moment. "I'm not enough," he mutters.

"Aside from the fight, Kentarou --"

"Let me finish. I'm not enough for any of you."

For a moment, the gym is silent. Then movement flashes at the corner of Kyoutani's eye and he turns to see Oikawa and Hanamaki climbing through the ropes.

"My Kyoutani senses were telling me it was a bit of insecurity," Oikawa says matter-of-factly. "I couldn't think of a way to fix it...until during the fight."

"We haven't been giving you the attention you deserve," Hanamaki clarifies, and then Oikawa's plan starts to unfold right in front of Kyoutani.

"Can we make it up to you?" Matsukawa regains Kyoutani's attention by clasping his still-gloved hands together at the wrist with one hand and drawing him in for a kiss, consuming and heady and everything Kyoutani has been aching for, Matsukawa's other hand settling at the dip of his lower back.

The adrenaline still coursing through Kyoutani's blood meets the rush of lust head-on, and he immediately craves more contact, pressing forward until his body is flush with Matsukawa's. He groans into the kiss before dragging his teeth across Matsukawa's cheek and nosing into the scruffiness there, inhaling the scent that he can't describe as anything other than _Issei_.

Without breaking his gaze from Matsukawa and Kyoutani, Hanamaki says, "Hajime, grab that rope he was using. And that chair in the back," and Kyoutani feels a jolt run down his spine, his breath hitching in anticipation.

Finally. Fucking _finally_. Kyoutani knows he has no reason to complain about the arrangement between the five of them, really, but it is frustrating that they don't often have the time to be together all at once. It's overwhelming, sometimes -- not only the complex things he feels for all of them, but also learning and relearning that he's wanted four times more than he has any right to claim.  

Matsukawa walks forward, pushing Kyoutani backward until his legs meet the chair, and then Matsukawa grabs his hips to ease him down onto it as he bends with him so that he doesn't break the kiss.

Kyoutani feels Hanamaki's gentle touch as he removes the tape and wrappings and gloves from his hands, their rawness not unlike how he feels inside. "You did so well today, Kentarou. We're so proud of you."

The words send a current of pleasure down Kyoutani's spine, and between the praise and Matsukawa's lips, Kyoutani doesn't really notice when Hanamaki pulls his arms behind the back of the chair, making quick work of binding his wrists with the jump rope -- tight enough to restrain but not enough to hurt.

Matsukawa steps back -- kissing Kyoutani’s forehead before he does so -- and pulls off his muscle tee, the one that Kyoutani can never decide whether he likes better on or off. As Iwaizumi passes Kyoutani to get to Matsukawa, he drops a worn jump rope in Kyoutani’s lap with a pointed look at Hanamaki.

Iwaizumi drapes his arms around Matsukawa's shoulders, leaning forward so that Matsukawa starts to backpedal. ”Let's tease him a little first, huh?" he mutters, just loud enough for Kyoutani to hear.

Arousal flares in Kyoutani's belly as Matsukawa sinks to the canvas with Iwaizumi straddling his hips. They settle so that Matsukawa sits with his back against the ropes and Iwaizumi is anchored in his lap, and Kyoutani feels a little breathless at how beautiful they are. He could look at them for eternity.

Iwaizumi takes hold of the ropes for support and rolls his hips, and Matsukawa’s fingers reflexively dig into his waist to keep the pace. A low, appreciative growl rumbles in Kyoutani's chest when Matsukawa takes Iwaizumi’s ass in his hands through his sweats and kneads, rocking their hips together.

From over Iwaizumi’s shoulder, Matsukawa’s eyes lock onto Kyoutani’s as his hands guide Iwaizumi into a slower, teasing rhythm that has Kyoutani bucking slightly against the chair.

It’s not a look of possession, but one of reverence. It has never been _mine_ , but always _ours_. A mixture of push and pull between each of them, with the same constancy as the ocean’s tides.

Kyoutani has never _felt_ so acutely outside of this moment. His attention shifts between Matsukawa and Iwaizumi, and Hanamaki, who's positioned himself between Kyoutani's legs.

Tapping his thighs, Hanamaki peers up at him. "Can you lift your hips for me, Kyou?"

Kyoutani's throat is too dry to manage words, so he only nods and raises himself up as far as the rope will allow, and Hanamaki slides off his shorts and underwear and tosses them aside. He doesn’t protest when Hanamaki takes the already frayed rope and pulls so that it breaks in two, using the pieces to secure his ankles to the legs of the chair.

The restraints put Kyoutani in a vulnerable, exposed position, but at the mercy of the people he trusts most, he’s never felt safer

But Kyoutani does have some _other_ concerns. He clears his throat, the question burning on his lips. "What if someone comes in?"

"We made sure no one would interrupt our practice session," Hanamaki says against the skin of Kyoutani's inner thigh, his fingers wrapping around the base of Kyoutani's cock. His hand tightens around him before slowly relaxing as he teases his way to the tip, and Kyoutani bites his lip, torn between wanting this to be quick and wishing it would last forever.

Hands slide over Kyoutani’s shoulders and down his chest; the feel of fight-worn palms over his nipples makes Kyoutani shiver. "Door's locked, so no need to fret," Oikawa murmurs into his neck, and Kyoutani tilts his head so that Oikawa's lips can map out his pulse point, his skin rippling with gooseflesh. “We can always stop if you want. Makki-chan, you brought the stuff, right?”

Hanamaki only wiggles his eyebrows as his free hand disappears into the pocket of his hoodie, reappearing with a small bottle of lube, some condoms, and a cock ring.

Kyoutani feels the press of Oikawa’s grin against his neck and almost whines when Hanamaki drops the bottle and condoms on the mat and tongues the ring -- Kyoutani’s favorite pink silicone one -- while he uses his other hand to continue lazily stroke Kyoutani’s length, all without breaking eye contact. Since Kyoutani can’t really move, he gyrates his hips to get more friction, but Hanamaki’s grip on his cock is just loose enough that his efforts are futile.

Hanamaki spins the cock ring on his finger. “Is this okay, Kentarou?” He continues to pierce Kyoutani with his eyes, seeking the necessary consent.

It’s very okay. Kyoutani nods, a plea barely kept in place by his teeth dragging against his bottom lip. “I want...I want to last.”

Hanamaki laughs, a low chuckle that Kyoutani feels in his belly. With one last flick of his tongue on the inside of the ring, Hanamaki strokes Kyoutani’s cock to half hardness and stretches the silicone over his length, fitting it so that it sits snugly at the base of his shaft. It’s tight but not uncomfortable, and Kyoutani can feel his cock continue to swell as Hanamaki runs his thumb and forefinger from tip to base in an agonizingly slow line.

Watching Hanamaki tease him makes Kyoutani glad for the adornment, and he looks to where Matsukawa and Iwaizumi are occupied against the ropes enclosing the ring, Iwaizumi’s sweats pushed down to his thighs and Matsukawa’s hand wrapped around his length. Iwaizumi thrusts up into his fist, his hem of his shirt tucked between his lips so that Matsukawa can swirl his tongue over his chest.

Kyoutani’s gaze catches on the arch in Iwaizumi’s sculpted back, the way the muscles shift with each of his movements, and he curses. The way Matsukawa’s bicep swells with each pump of his hand. This isn’t the first time Kyoutani’s wanted to personally thank whatever powers that be that his partners belong to the same club as him.

Oikawa traces a finger around one of Kyoutani’s nipples while the other hand snakes downward to massage the sensitive swath of skin at his hip just as Hanamaki sinks his mouth down over his cock, taking him deep enough that Kyoutani breaches his throat for a sweet second before he pops off with a wet smack.

The brief rush and sudden absence of stimulation makes Kyoutani gasp and clench his hands and strain against the rope, and Hanamaki runs a hand up and down his thigh to soothe him.“You’re doing so well, babe,” he says, smirking up at Kyoutani.

He closes his eyes at the onslaught of pleasure, waves of it that crash in on every front.

“While we were watching you fight today, Kentarou, I told Mattsun how much I wanted to fuck you, how much I wanted to ride you and make you feel good, like you deserve.” Oikawa’s voice is steeped in desire, and Kyoutani does not doubt the sincerity of his words.

“Yeah?” Kyoutani’s breath comes out raspy and voice broken; he can feel his pulse thrumming in his ears, his cock twitching slightly with every brush of lips at his shoulder and every soft moan that escapes Iwaizumi’s lips and every subtle movement as Hanamaki ghosts his hand or his mouth over his cock.

Oikawa leaves a trail of kisses from Kyoutani’s shoulder to his jaw. “I want you to fill me up, Kentarou.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Kyoutani hisses.

Hanamaki teases the head of Kyoutani’s cock with his lips, his tongue rolling under the glans and in circles over his leaking slit. He hollows his cheeks and hums and the sensation makes Kyoutani hiss; he feels like he’s losing himself to sheer ecstasy, wants nothing more than to sink his fingers into Hanamaki’s hair and fuck his mouth until he comes hot and bitter down his throat.

The force of the impulse nearly makes it impossible for Kyoutani to focus on Oikawa’s words.

“You’re so powerful in the ring -- I wanna let you pin me down and fuck me and make me come over and over again.” Oikawa massages Kyoutani’s pectorals, his traps, his biceps with hands that can only be described as reverent. “I want you to fucking _wreck_ me. But the other part of me wants to bounce on your dick while Makki, Mattsun, and Iwa-chan watch.”

Iwaizumi looks back at Kyoutani then, winks, and mouths an “I love you” at him before turning back to Matsukawa and redoubling his efforts; his hands fumble at Matsukawa’s shorts and drag at the elastic waist, nudging the material along with his boxers down until Matsukawa’s erection bobs free and he releases his grip on Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi palms their cocks with both hands -- he’s got the smallest but gentlest hands among them, though it doesn’t make him any less of a fighter or lover -- and Matsukawa bites Iwaizumi’s shoulder, his hands fitting against the curve of his ass.

Hanamaki strokes Kyoutani faster and with a firmer grip as Oikawa murmurs in his ear, his hand now slippery with lube, and Kyoutani feels himself reaching the tipping-but-not-quite-tipping point, his legs quivering with the effort to keep still as the two take him to the edge of oblivion without letting him fall. He gasps when Hanamaki suddenly pulls off, head thrown back as Oikawa nips along his neck, his sweat-slick body trembling with need for stimulation that doesn’t come.

“We don’t ever want you to think you’re not good enough, Kentarou.” Oikawa noses Kyoutani’s ear, blowing softly so as to make him shiver. “You’re perfect. A work of art.”

A hand smooths up his chest, over his clavicles, thumb and forefinger pressing under his jaw, tightening and releasing. His abandoned cock twitches and precome spills over the tip, the flesh reddened, engorged, and shiny with spit and lube.

“How does it feel? Do you want us to stop?”

Between stuttered breaths Kyoutani bites out his reply. “Ahh, _fuck_ , feels so good, please -- please don’t stop.” He wants to surrender, surrender, surrender.

“Wait just a little more, hm? I’m coming back for you.” Oikawa gives him a parting squeeze with calloused hands that are like the sweetest vise around his neck before he joins Matsukawa and Iwaizumi. He sinks to his knees before them and kisses Matsukawa open-mouthed and messy, then turns his attention to Iwaizumi, who sucks on Oikawa’s bottom lip before licking into his mouth. Once he’s satisfied, Oikawa slides back so that his breath ghosts over where Iwaizumi has himself and Matsukawa in his hands and presses his lips to their cocks, chaste but for a moment before his tongue snakes out.

Iwaizumi brushes Oikawa’s hair back from his eyes, and Matsukawa leans with his head tipped back against the ropes, mouth open in a silent moan.

“Your cock is so pretty.” Hanamaki draws Kyoutani’s attention with the tip of his tongue against the underside of Kyoutani’s shaft, while his hands work at his shorts (a pair of Matsukawa’s, Kyoutani realizes), working them down far enough that he can palm his length as he teases Kyoutani with his mouth.

Kyoutani looks down at Hanamaki through heavy-lidded eyes; he feels dazed, as if every drop of his blood is trapped in his dick. He can’t take his eyes from the stuttered rhythm of Hanamaki’s left hand around his own cock; with his right he continues his torture, a few quick pumps of his hand followed by sudden release and denial of climax.

There’s no understanding Hanamaki’s hands, how they work independently at their separate tasks, edging and chasing pleasure simultaneously.

“You. Are. Enough.” Every word is punctuated with a slip of Hanamaki’s thumb over his slit, and Kyoutani moans brokenly. Tears collect in his eyes from the force of it all, the attention, the intimacy, the reverence.    

Kyoutani loves the way Hanamaki comes, his eyes locked on him, soft moans falling from barely parted lips as he milks his cock with short, erratic strokes, hips and legs tensing and relaxing rhythmically as come spills over the head amid spurts that reach as far as his own chin. He fucks into his own palm, the sticky mess aiding the slide of skin against skin, and with each tight pass of his hand his foreskin slips over the head as pearly strings drip onto the canvas.

Hanamaki utters a sigh of Kyoutani’s given name, and it’s too much, really, and Kyoutani thinks it’s illogical that he’s their focus, that they came here tonight for _him_ , not only to support him during the fight, but to also reassure him of his place, his _belonging_ in their world.

The man on his knees between his legs lies with his cheek pressed to Kyoutani’s thigh as he comes down, close but not close enough to where Kyoutani needs him, each breath against his skin a reminder that he’s a touch away from release, that when he does reach it he might break under the pressure. Yet even through the erotic stupor, Kyoutani notices than Hanamaki looks more sleepy than usual. (He’d cup his cheek if he weren’t bound, kiss his nose if he could reach.)

When he looks up at the other three, the scene almost does him in: they’re naked, Oikawa on his back and Iwaizumi trapped between Oikawa’s thighs, three fingers hooked inside him, while Matsukawa sits with his thighs bracketing Oikawa’s head.

He watches Matsukawa’s cock disappear inside Oikawa’s mouth and Iwaizumi’s fingers plunge in and out of his hole. Oikawa brings his arms up around Matsukawa to draw him closer, his toes curling as Iwaizumi massages his walls with every twist of his wrist, brows furrowed in concentration. His tongue even peeks out of the corner of his mouth as he sets a steady rhythm of deep thrusts that make Oikawa’s thighs twitch as he works him open.

Kyoutani can tell the instant Matsukawa comes; his back goes rigid before he bends over Oikawa to rest his forearms on the canvas, hips rocking gently as he spills into Oikawa’s mouth and onto his face.

“Fucking shit.” Kyoutani’s breathes in wonder; he's hoarse and only capable of vulgarity. No longer possessing the energy to resist his restraints, he feels full and tight and aching with need, a bow bent and ready to snap.

Matsukawa clambers gracelessly off of Oikawa, and Iwaizumi presses in up to his last knuckles and makes Oikawa yelp before sliding his fingers out. Once he’s sitting up, Oikawa flashes Kyoutani a toothy grin and licks at the come dripping past his mouth. Iwaizumi takes his face in his hands and starts to lap up the streaks he can’t reach, and once his face is relatively clean again, he stands up on wobbly legs and saunters over to Kyoutani, who was too otherwise occupied to notice that Hanamaki had slid from his lap to watch against the ropes. Matsukawa and Iwaizumi join him, but with Matsukawa leaning back onto Iwaizumi.

Oikawa is uncharacteristically quiet as he bends to rip off one of the condoms and grab the lube, opening and rolling the rubber down Kyoutani’s shaft in one fluid motion before straddling him. He swipes lubed fingers between his cheeks and grinds so that Kyoutani’s cock slides over and against his hole, and Kyoutani whimpers, but Oikawa chases the sound with a kiss, his lips soft and swollen and tasting of a familiar bitterness. Kyoutani’s mouth parts to deepen the kiss and taste more and he feels Oikawa smile again, this time against his lips.

Kyoutani never knew receiving a mouthful of come through a kiss could be so hot, but the unexpected surge of salty fluid onto his tongue is far from unpleasant, and he tries to swallow it all but some drips down his chin.

One of their audience whistles long and low and Oikawa pulls back and laughs. “Issei tastes good, doesn’t he?”

Kyoutani growls in response because Oikawa seems intent on teasing him, licking the come off his chin while he ruts against his erection. With Oikawa writhing in his lap as he is, Kyoutani wants to snap the rope binding his wrists just so that he could slam Oikawa’s hips down and split him over his cock. He’s so rigid that it’d probably take even less force to thrust up inside him, just a guiding press on Oikawa’s lower back to deepen the arch there and feel his head slip into that close, wet heat.

“I know, I know,” Oikawa tuts, his hands smoothing over Kyoutani’s chest. And without warning he  sinks down until Kyoutani’s fully sheathed and a yell breaks past his lips.

The chair creaks as Oikawa fucks himself on Kyoutani’s dick, arms wrapped around his neck for support. With what little room he has to move, Kyoutani attempts to meet Oikawa as best as he can, bucking his hips -- small movements, really -- so that Oikawa takes him at his deepest with each roll of his hips. Kyoutani doesn’t know how he doesn’t burst with the continuous stimulation, especially after being denied, but he bites his lip until he bleeds in an attempt to distract himself, grunting with each impact.  

Iwaizumi must have gotten him close because it’s not long before Oikawa starts to fall apart, slowly and then all at once, like a single crack before a mirror shatters. His thrusts become deeper and harder, and Kyoutani almost regrets that they can’t come together, but it’s worth seeing the cute scrunched-up face Oikawa makes and feeling the way Oikawa’s fingers dig into his shoulders as he paints his abs in thick stripes of come.

But the combined tightness of the ring and the tiny fluttering pulses of Oikawa’s muscles as he clenches around him is unbearable. “Please, Tooru, I can’t -- I’m --” He can’t get the words out, but Oikawa understands, easing himself off gently. Iwaizumi, Matsukawa, and Hanamaki are there to replace him, Hanamaki undoing the ropes and massaging the tender skin, Iwaizumi pulling off the condom and stretching the ring over and off his cock, and Matsukawa dabbing at his abs and chest with a towel.

Kyoutani slumps down in the chair, his energy spent but his hard-on still leaking and neglected. “One of you, fuck me, _please_ , I feel like I’m gonna die if I don’t come --”

Matsukawa scoops Kyoutani up and lays him down on the canvas, a finger circling over his hole before sinking in just past the tip. Kyoutani’s cock is hot and heavy where it presses against the dip of his hip, and he resists the urge to palm himself, his body quivering at the feel of Matsukawa teasing his rim.

After Matsukawa pulls away, fingers sticky with lube, Iwazumi replaces him and hikes Kyoutani’s knees over the crooks of his elbows.

“Ready, Kentarou?”

Kyoutani nods and his back arches up off the mat at the agonizingly slow press of Iwaizumi’s cock. There’s no condom this time, and Iwaizumi doesn’t stop until Kyoutani can’t tell their heartbeats apart. He comes with a broken cry, and it sounds like all their names at once, and Iwaizumi strokes him through it and rolls his hips, only just pulling out before gliding back in.

Kyoutani comes and comes and comes, even through Iwaizumi’s climax, the stuttering of his hips as he spills inside him, the teeth marks he leaves on his shoulder.

Oikawa sits cross-legged at his head, brushing away the tears as they spill. Hanamaki and Matsukawa are at his sides, squeezing his hands through the ecstasy wracking his body.

Among all the other nameless, depthless things he feels, this is the only one Kyoutani has a name for.

He’s broken, shattered, utterly wrecked, but the jagged pieces of his soul are in four sets of reverent hands.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://ohmykokuroo.tumblr.com) || [other tumblr](http://zeppellii.tumblr.com) || [twitter](https://twitter.com/lovedeluxxxe)


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